


Sing For Me

by KokoBean



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Aftercare, Bottom!McCree, Cowboy getting ridden like hell, Hanzo also being a cheeky brat, Inappropriate bets, Lena being a cheeky brat, M/M, McCree being unable to shut the hell up, Orgasm Delay/Denial, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prostate Massage, awkward PDA, bottoming for your boyfriend for the first time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 06:32:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7673740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KokoBean/pseuds/KokoBean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone should've told Tracer that Hanzo very rarely backs down from a challenge. </p><p>And if that challenge goes a direction he wasn't expecting, well, who is he to complain? He's always thought that Jesse looked good on his back. </p><p>Jesse McCree and breakfast are both very important to Hanzo, and there's few things he wouldn't do for either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sing For Me

**Author's Note:**

> Written because holy shit I needed loud bottom McCree in my life, and also as a gift for my lady, who also adores loud McCree
> 
> Everyone wins! 
> 
> This is so filthy omg do not read in public

It starts, as many things in this base do, with a bet made at the kitchen table.  
  
It's a far later time than Hanzo is used to having breakfast, but still too early for the younger members to be awake, the summer heat making them lazy.   
Reinhardt is cooking a feast fit for a small army, cheerfully whistling some upbeat, long forgotten song (far too loudly). Morrison is perusing a tablet for the day's news headlines, squinting irritably at the words and sipping the ungodly strong coffee he made without a hitch.   
  
Hanzo picks up his own mug of tea to take a sip and halts when he notices Lena is staring at him contemplatively over the table, smirking around a piece of stolen bacon. Her sly gaze flicks down his throat, eyeing some colorful marks that aren't completely covered by the fabric of his kyudo-gi, and he stamps down the unreasonable urge to squirm self-consciously. 

“Have a good time last night, love?” she inquires, waggling her eyebrows. Hanzo sniffs haughtily, straightening enough to pull the collar down and show more of the marks, _proud.  
  
_ “Perhaps.” he replies, to which Lena laughs and Morrison snorts.   
  
“'Perhaps', he says, when he forgets my room is across the hall from McCree's.” she giggles, lounging back in her chair.  
  
“There is no shame in enjoying oneself,” Hanzo huffs, ignoring Lena's broadening smirk, “Invest in some earplugs.”   
  
Reinhardt barks a sharp laugh from where he's standing at the stove, stacking still-sizzling bratwurst on a plate. Morrison gives a long suffering sigh, muttering something about being 'too old for this' as he tabs into another news browser on his tablet.   
  
Lena is outright grinning now, kicking her chair back on two legs and looking far too smug for someone wearing pajamas covered in cute cartoon sheep.   
  
“Well, I've known that rascal forever, and I've _never_ heard 'im. If you, _Mr. Shimada,_ can make that cowboy scream, I'll never make fun 'o you again,” when she sees Hanzo raise an eyebrow and open his mouth, Lena lifts a finger to cut him off, “ _And,_ I'll make ya breakfast for a week.”   
  
Hanzo seems to contemplate this, his eyes hinting at a smile over the rim of his teacup as he takes a slow sip.   
  
“Only if you leave out that blood nonsense.” he concedes, and Lena's bubbly laughter and indignant, “ _Black pudding,_ love, and it's delicious!” are nearly drowned out by Reinhardt's booming guffaws.  
  
Morrison only sighs again and wonders if Winston will notice if he relocates a pair of soundproof headphones from the shooting range for the foreseeable future.  
  


* * *

  
A week later, a confused McCree is following Hanzo back to their quarters for the night, feeling oddly like a kicked puppy.   
For an entire seven days, his partner has refused any and all romantic advances.   
McCree would be concerned, except for the fact everything else is the same.   
They still train together, still share meals, still take evening walks on the cliffs and still sleep slotted together like the world's strangest puzzle pieces. But any time he's tried to initiate anything beyond a chaste kiss, the archer has pulled away with devastating gentleness and a firm, “Not now”. 

If anything, McCree is hurt by the sudden aloofness. He thought they were beyond this.   
  
The door snicks closed behind them with the hiss of hydraulics and a tiny 'beep' from the locking mechanism, and McCree ignores the nagging feeling of claustrophobia.   
  
“Darlin'?” he starts, and the hesitancy in his normally boisterous voice makes Hanzo pause from where he's methodically stripping down for the night. The archer turns, an eyebrow raised, only to furrow both in confusion at how hangdog the cowboy looks.   
  
McCree shuffles in place a little, looks everywhere but at Hanzo, puffs out a breath and takes his hat off to hold it to his chest. The door is unrelenting behind him, and he takes a few steps further into the room in hopes that movement with galvanize him.   
  
“Just... Uh.. Are ya upset with me?” he asks, worrying the brim of his hat with nervous fingers when Hanzo only looks more confused.   
  
“Why would I be?” the question is calm but honest, crossing the small distance to McCree in just his hakama. The gunslinger shuffles again, spurs jingling softly, and doesn't protest when Hanzo carefully takes his hat to set it aside.  
  
“Well, y' haven't been _avoiding_ me per say, but I mean... You sure got me in the doghouse, sugar. Did I do somethin' wrong?” McCree is tense, oddly shy without his normal bluster, and Hanzo can't help but smile just a touch.   
  
“Of course not, Jesse. I apologize, I was waiting for the best time to surprise you- I may have been overzealous in my tactics.” Hanzo's voice is soft, and even though McCree is more confused than before, he gladly leans into the archer's hand when he combs through his beard.   
  
The gunslinger is about to question him further when he's silenced by a pair of lips, warm and dry and gently coaxing his own to move. McCree couldn't stop the relieved groan if he tried, settling his hands on Hanzo's shoulders as he's guided backwards.

The kiss is slow and languid, closed-mouthed, sparking an immediate burn in the pit of his stomach, and he'd be abashed at how quickly he's getting riled up if there weren't nimble fingers tracing the tendons in his neck down to his shirt collar.   
  
Hanzo pushes forward when McCree's knees hit the side of the bed, and the gunslinger sits obediently, their mouths never coming apart. Hanzo slides into his lap, knees on either side of his hips, and McCree stutters a groan into the archer's mouth. He feels the brief flit of a smile before Hanzo is tilting his head for a better angle, unbuttoning the red plaid flannel shirt with excruciating slowness.

McCree shivers and arches, breath getting caught in his throat when a tongue swipes over his lip, and glides his hands down over firm pecs to curve over a trim waist.   
  
When Hanzo finally pushes the flannel off of him, McCree flexes his grip and tries to dominate the kiss, only to get a nipple tweaked in rebuke. He hisses and jerks, hypersensitive, and stares blearily at Hanzo's quietly pleased face.   
  
“Patience, lay back,” the soft command is accompanied by Hanzo's hand pressing down on McCree's bare chest, and the gunslinger obeys, flushed and already breathing heavy, “Let me take care of you.” the archer finishes, dark eyes full of promise and voice the purr of a panther as he runs fingers through the hair covering McCree's chest, following the trail down, down over the shivering muscles in his stomach.   
  
McCree's bites his lip and lets out a ragged moan, flushed to the tips of his ears and barely holding back from coming in his jeans right then, the words shooting bolts of white hot lightning down his spine to smolder in his hips.  
  
“Fuck, god- _damn,_ anythin' for you, darlin',” his voice is already raspy with need, hands clenched on the sharp curves of the archers hips as he squirms on the bed, “Jus' don' stop.”

Hanzo gives a pleased sound and leans down to kiss him again, cupping McCree's jaw with his free hand and guiding his mouth open. The archer licks in to the welcoming heat, tasting cigarillo smoke and something distinctly McCree, relishing in the gunslinger's choked groan and the way he's already arching to get closer.   
Hanzo fights down a smirk and runs a hand through McCree's messy hair to tilt his head further, swearing he can already smell the breakfast Lena will owe him.  
  


* * *

By the time they're both finally naked, McCree is sweating and flushed down to his chest, trying to hold on to whatever part of Hanzo he can reach, and the archer has forgotten entirely about bets.   
  
McCree is whining low in his throat, head flung back against the pillows while Hanzo laves his neck with biting kisses, one hand kneading a tawny thigh and the other lazily stroking the gunslinger from root to tip. Hanzo's hand is already drenched, a pool of precum forming steadily on McCree's stomach, his hips pushing up in stuttering little thrusts that the archer moves with, denying him better friction.   
McCree's arms are latched around Hanzo's shoulders like his partner might disappear at any moment, twisting feebly and kicking a leg out to hook it around the archer's hips and _pull,_ straining to get him closer.  
  
“Darlin', baby, _please_ , you're killin' me-” he cuts off with a sharp gasp when he's granted a single firm stroke, bucking to try and chase the feeling, “ _Fucking hell,_ Hanzo- God, I love your hands-”  
  
Hanzo chuckles against McCree's collarbone, adoring how shaky the gunslinger's voice is already, and teasingly brushes a finger down over tight balls to rub against his perineum.   
Any other time he'd done this, McCree had snorted a laugh and jerked away, claiming to be ticklish. But now, his partner shivers from head to toe and hunches his hips, just enough to make Hanzo's finger skitter over his twitching hole.  
  
Hanzo masks his surprise with a kiss to McCree's heaving chest, listening to the way the gunslinger's barely-there moans jump in tone, fingers both metal and flesh digging into the meat of his back.   
  
The archer had intended on riding the cowboy until he howled, but it seemed that plan might be changing.   
  
Slowly, Hanzo rubs a circle over the tight muscle, gentle but firm enough to not be ignored. McCree's shuddering groan is satisfying in a way he wasn't expecting, pulling a growl from his own chest as he settles himself more firmly between the gunslinger's legs.   
  
“Talk to me, Jesse.” he says lowly, punctuating it with a long lick over one already pebbled nipple. McCree arches under him, a scramble of movement where he can't seem to figure out where he wants his hands- in Hanzo's hair or dragging down his back -and slings his leg higher around the archer's hip for a moment before letting both legs fall open.   
  
“Darlin', _darlin',_ please, I want it-” McCree's voice hitches when Hanzo nuzzles up under his jaw, dropping a feather light kiss on his pulse, “ _Dammit,_ I hate that yer such a fuckin' tease- wait no no no come back-” he wheezes and squirms when the finger disappears, only to jolt when it returns with company, slick and cold.   
  
“Shit that's co-” the complaint cuts off with a drawn out moan when the archer's middle finger slides in, careful, and pauses at the second knuckle. Hanzo uses his free hand to massage one of McCree's thick thighs, digging the heel of his hand in the shivering muscle where it joins his pelvis.   
McCree twists his hips, trying to push down into the sensation and whining when Hanzo obligingly slides his finger further.

“Babe, c'mon, don't make me wait no more, _c'mon-_ ” Hanzo shushes him with a brief kiss, ducking back down when McCree tries to deepen it, capturing the lobe of his ear between his teeth just sharp enough to sting. McCree gasps once, then again when Hanzo gives him another finger.   
  
“ _Patience,_ coyote.” Hanzo's voice is a dangerous growl, and he's mildly surprised when McCree _whimpers_ and lies back completely, straining his head to the side to give Hanzo more of his neck.   
  
Hanzo obliges, unable to resist the stretch of tanned skin, and sucks a mark right under the hinge of the gunslinger's jaw as he works his fingers. McCree isn't silent for a moment, panting out deliciously needy sounds that go right to the archer's cock, shuddering when the gunslinger's hands trip down his back to grab his ass.   
  
“Fuck, sweetheart, I can't- I can't be patient, shit-” he breaks off with a throaty cry, entire body jolting like a livewire when Hanzo crooks his fingers, “Oh damn, o-o-h FUH-” chokes like he can't get enough air, the archer's uncanny aim aiding him even here as he rubs back and forth over the gunslinger's swollen prostate.  
McCree's legs are trembling mightily as he pulls them up, completely on instinct, face screwed up in ecstasy.   
  
“Ri- aahhfuck- right there, baby-” he manages a few sharp heaving breaths before they all leave him in a whoosh when Hanzo angles his wrist and starts thrusting, McCree's mechanical arm flinging to the side to tear at the sheets.

“Hanzo- _fuck, Hanzo-_ ” he's squirming and tensing in a telling way, and Hanzo digs his teeth into McCree's shoulder as he reaches down and grips the base of the gunslinger's cock punishingly hard. McCree bucks his hips wildly and chokes on a howl, tangling his human fingers in Hanzo's hair, cock flushed an angry red as it jerks and drools uselessly in the archer's grip.  
  
“Not yet, Jesse.” Hanzo murmurs, his own need only shown in how his voice trembles just slightly. He licks the bite apologetically, shushing McCree's desperate whines with kisses across his sweaty cheek.  
  
“ _God-_ baby, please, I need ya so bad, _please-”_ Hanzo quiets him with a sloppy, open mouthed kiss, removing both hands when the gunslinger's shivers calm down and reaching blindly for the bottle of lube.   
McCree is writhing against him, hooking his legs around Hanzo's waist and panting hotly into the kiss, and the archer nearly fumbles the bottle trying to pop the cap open. He's never seen his partner this undone, and _damn_ if it doesn't make him want to fuck him through the mattress.   
  
Hanzo pulls away only far enough to pant, “Relax, coyote,” against McCree's mouth, following it with a lick to his lower lip that makes the gunslinger arch up to follow it.

Hanzo slicks himself up roughly, hissing at the sudden friction and humping once into his own hand before digging his fingers into McCree's thighs, shoving them apart. The gunslinger is breathing like he's run a marathon, saliva running from the corner of his mouth and expression verging on tortured, and they haven't even _started._  
  
McCree is moaning deep in his chest, interspersed with rough 'please's, and Hanzo wastes no time in giving him what he wants, hunching his hips and pushing through the tight ring of muscle almost shockingly easy. He catches his breath on a ragged groan, forcing his eyes to stay open to watch how McCree's jaw drops open and his eyebrows scrunch up.  
  
Hanzo growls, a wave of possessive adoration rushing over him, and tightens his grip before bucking his hips, seating himself balls deep in one movement. It may have been a tad too fast, but McCree eats it up, crying out brokenly and flinging his head back, trying to wrap his legs back around Hanzo's hips.  
The archer isn't having it, barely giving the gunslinger a moment to adjust before he's hauling McCree's hips to him, trying to push himself even deeper.   
  
“Fuck fuck _fuck,_ god-DAMN, darlin', _please_ -” Hanzo shudders, groans, weak to the begging, and finally gives in to the urge to thrust hard, his prosthetic feet tearing holes in the sheets as he pushes for leverage, and McCree _yowls_.  
  
“Oh God- fuck- SHI-” he cuts off with cry that sounds wrecked, his mechanical hand flying up to brace against the wall behind his head, shoving back into every thrust and digging his nails into Hanzo's flexing back.   
  
“Fucking _he-e-ll, baby,_ goddamn I need ya so bad-” Hanzo snarls and nearly pushes McCree in half, the gunslinger answering with a garbled mix of English and Spanish cuss words when the change in angle brushes over his prostate with every brutal thrust, “Jesus _christ_ I been thinkin' 'bout this all f-fuckin' week, burnin' up every time ya _look_ at me- god _damn-_ ”  
  
Hanzo's panting just as hard as McCree now, hair loose from it's tie and sticking wetly to his face and neck, hyper-aware of every line the gunslinger is dragging into the skin of his back, clenching his teeth on every growling groan that claws up his throat. He'll never say, but he _adores_ when McCree can't shut up.   
  
“Wanted ta drag ya into every fuckin' closet, bend ya over the godda-aaahm kitchen table, but shit, _shit,_ this is so much better- God, Hanzo-” his name is like a prayer on McCree's lips, desperate and beautiful, and Hanzo gives as best he can.   
He moves his grip to the gunslinger's hip, digging his fingers in and bracing a hand next to McCree's head to balance better, glancing down to watch himself disappear repeatedly into his partner, and the sight nearly unravels him.   
  
The bed is creaking alarmingly, accompanied by the wet squelch and slap between McCree's shaking thighs, the gunslinger's cock bouncing against his stomach with every thrust.   
McCree whines, a desperate, thready sound, and reaches down to take himself in hand only to get slapped away.

“Like this or not at all, Jesse.” Hanzo growls, dark and throaty, and McCree wails.  
  
“God-damn yer a mean sunuvabitch-” McCree grabs on to the nape of Hanzo's neck and moans heavily, the archer having lunged down to bite the down the side of his throat. “Shit- babe, _darlin',_ harder, faster, _somethin'-_ fuckin' hell, Hanzo please, _please,_ I'm so close, _Hanzo-_ ”  
  
Hanzo couldn't have stopped the full bodied groan if he tried, baring his teeth as he gave McCree what he asked for, upping the pace to something just shy of punishing, absolutely relishing in the way the gunslinger's smoky voice jumped higher and broke.  
McCree's toes curl, both arms flinging around Hanzo's back to hold on for dear life, so far beyond caring about volume as he cried out at every thrust, a panicked edge threading into his voice. He twists and writhes, desperately grinding back, scrabbling at the very edge of a precipice.   
  
“I can't, I can't, Hanzo-” the archer shushes him with a quick kiss that's more teeth than lips, and McCree can swear he sees the dragon tattoo undulate out of the corner of his eye.  
  
“Scream for me, coyote.” It isn't a request, it's a demand, hard as steel and hot as hellfire, and McCree is helpless to obey. Every muscle locks up, shivering with tension, the gunslinger's eyes flying wide before they're rolling back and his expression screws up in painful abandon.  
  
The orgasm crashes over him _hard,_ his mouth open in silence for a beat before the yell rips out of him, followed by staccato cries as he spasms in Hanzo's grip, cock jerking between them and painting them both in thick stripes, a generous splat hitting the underside of the archer's chin.   
Hanzo fucks him through it relentlessly, snarling into McCree's shoulder, his thrusts going erratic and shaky when the gunslinger's cries become near sobs of overwhelmed pleasure.

It only takes seconds before Hanzo's falling and following after McCree, shoving in as deep as he can, panting harshly and filling the shaking gunslinger near to overflowing, muffling his throaty groans in a tawny shoulder.   
  
Hanzo is still for a moment after, pleasantly sore and unbelievably satisfied, gingerly lowering McCree's trembling legs to the bed. He startles a bit when McCree clenches his hands in the archer's shoulder blades, holding him close and tight like he's going to leave. The gunslinger's voice is completely destroyed, and it takes a second for Hanzo to realize the hoarse words he's trying to say are actually his name, over and over.   
  
Hanzo relaxes and carefully lowers himself to lay across McCree, skimming his hands up over heaving ribs to cradle the gunslinger's face, rubbing his cheek affectionately against his partner's and kissing away the few tears of over-stimulation that managed to escape.   
Carefully, he cants his hips back to slide out of McCree, shushing the quiet hiss he makes, and rolls them both to lay on their sides. McCree is shaking all over, fine tremors that Hanzo smooths over with his hands until they're only an occasional shiver, pressing gentle kisses to the gunslinger's cheeks and forehead.   
  
“Are you alright?” Hanzo's own voice is a mess, gravelly and rough. McCree nods and gives him a fleeting smile, still trying to catch his breath, smushing himself against Hanzo and up under his chin in a way that only be described as snuggling.   
  
“Peachy-keen, sweetheart. Needa do that more often.” McCree's barely-there voice is light in tone, but he's still holding on to Hanzo as tightly as he can when his every muscle feels like an overcooked noodle.   
Hanzo only hums in response and smiles back, petting through McCree's wild mop of hair and settling in to be there a while. He'll hold the gunslinger as long as he needs, draping his arm comfortably over McCree's waist after yanking the mussed sheet up over them both.  
  
They can shower in the morning.  
  


* * *

  
After a particularly long shower that was spent mostly leisurely making out, the two head to the kitchen for much needed calories. McCree is practically attached to his side, and Hanzo tolerates it with good grace, flitting his hand across the gunslinger's back to settle on his hip.

The kitchen, surprisingly busy this morning, goes silent the moment they enter. They both stop, startled, before a moment later D.Va erupts into loud cheering and clapping. This prompts everyone else to start laughing, a few other claps and an approving whistle from Lúcio joining in.   
  
McCree flushes beet red and almost turns right back around, breakfast be damned, but Hanzo's tightened his grip and is guiding him to the table, surprisingly calm. He glances over at Lena's bright laughter, finally catching a whiff of whatever the girl is making, and his embarrassment takes a backseat to hunger.   
  
“Bravo, boys, I'm impressed you made it out this early!” Hanzo snorts and settles into the chair next to McCree, smirking while he watches Lena blink from pan to pan, making a truly shocking amount of food with Reinhardt helping.   
  
“Yes yes, I see you Hanzo, you smug cretin. I promise there's no black pudding, as promised.”

McCree glances between the two, squinting, wishing he had a mug of coffee to occupy his hands. Hanzo huffs a laugh and reaches up to thumb a particularly dark mark on the side of McCree's neck, affectionate in his own way.   
  
“I won us breakfast for a week. You're welcome.”   
  
McCree sputters, going red again when Reinhardt barks a laugh and the rest join in, slumping down in his chair and tipping his hat down with all the grace of a sulking child.  
  
“Shoot, darlin', I'm a bad influence on you.”  
  
The gunslinger's tiff doesn't last long, disappearing completely when a plate overflowing with food is placed in front of him, and he digs in gleefully.  
  
Because, really, no one makes a full English spread quite like Lena.

 


End file.
